


I Turn it Off and Smile

by corduroy



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Comfort, M/M, Manchester United, Reality, losing a match
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 05:21:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3162785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corduroy/pseuds/corduroy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They lost. Again. And now Juan hasn't been around lately. Is that why Ander finds himself at Juan's doorstep?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Turn it Off and Smile

**Author's Note:**

> Does anybody else ship this??  
> I was feeling pretty angst-y after United's loss today, so the natural reaction was to write a little bit of Juander, as you do.  
> Obviously, this is a work of fiction. None of this ever happened or ever will happen. Though I do dearly hope that Juan got some comfort at some point. I simply love United's Spaniards. Thank you sooo much for stopping by :D !!

Ander rambles.

So as he presses his finger to Juan’s doorbell, he frantically edits the monologue he had prepared in his head.

There is so much he wants to say. Manchester United had lost their first game at Old Trafford of the season. Against Southampton. Who now occupy the coveted third place rank in the table. United had zero shots on target. Juan had three misses.

Normally, Ander would not be standing on Juan’s doorstep if they had lost. Juan can take care of himself. Always optimistic, Juan will just brush a bad match off his shoulder and carry on with life, smiling.

But this time, Juan has avoided Ander, Di Maria, and even David during training. When David asked Ander if Juan had been avoiding his texts too, Ander felt a new weight settle in his limbs. He tried to shake it off, but then he started walking. And now here he is, counting the stars, pondering how many seconds it is polite to wait before ringing the doorbell again.

Ander wants to remind Juan that he had the most assists in the Premier League a few seasons ago. He wants to tell Juan that his first touch is one of the best on the team, that his eye for space is incredible, and that his skill during set pieces is never forgotten. He wants to tell him how excited he is that they’re playing alongside each other again and he thinks they can accomplish great things.

Ander wants Juan to know he thinks he is integral to the team’s success. He also wants to remind Juan that the Saints’ goal was preventable; Ander swears he saw Blackett get a touch on the ball before it rolled into the net. But Juan must be aware of all of this, even though he has never spoken a bragging syllable in his lifetime. And when Juan finally opens the door, Ander can tell that the last topic Juan wants to discuss is football.

Juan forces a tight smile, because he’s Juan, and invites Ander inside. Juan’s old Valencia sweatpants are sagging on his hips, he has one sock on, and his usually tender blue eyes are heavy with fatigue. Juan hasn’t lost his touch, he’s just tired.

Juan is a lot of things. He’s a polite university graduate who loves travel. He’s a young man with impeccable taste and a palpable love for life. He also has a peculiar tendency to remind Ander of a stuffed animal at times. Juan is one of Ander’s closest friends, and damn it all if he’s not a world class footballer. But for once in his life, Ander doesn’t know what to say as Juan pours them both glasses of wine and directs him over to Juan’s stylish hand-crafted couch, so he just says, “Merci.”

_What the hell?_

Juan has every right to look as confused as he does. He places the glasses of wine on cork coasters on the coffee table and sits beside Ander.

“Are you learning French, Ander?” Ander is not learning French. He nods.

But then Juan’s eyes spark with interest, so Ander changes the subject before Juan delves any further.

“Have you been busy lately?” he asks, whilst eyeing Juan’s chosen attire.

“Not particularly, why?”

“You haven’t been answering my texts. David wanted to do something in the next few days.”

“Oh, really? What did he have in mind?”

“I don’t know, read his message.”

Juan groans softly. “I haven’t even turned on my phone yet.”

“Enjoying an extended siesta?” Ander asks, cringing after Juan closes his eyes. He doesn’t mean to sound harsh, so he rubs soft circles into Juan’s arm to hopefully take the sting away.

How did his arm find its way around Juan’s shoulder?

Ander feels his stomach pop as his eyes widen and the silence settles like dust around Juan’s living room.

“It was bound to happen, I guess,” Juan finally whispers.

Ander shrugs and says, “We all need a break sometimes.”

“No,” Juan says, shaking his head, his hair soft on Ander’s skin.

Ander clears his throat and says, “All teams lose at home at some point, and besides it’s not like it was the World Cup or anything…”

Ander trails off and coughs into his fist as Juan groans again, louder this time. Wrong thing to say, Ander notes with a grimace, got it.

“We’re not supposed to think like that. That’s not what I meant, anyway,” Juan says with a growl in his voice, opening his eyes to look away from Ander. “I’ve hit rock bottom.”

“What?” Ander says leaning forward. This is not Juan sitting next to him. Not the Juan he knows, the little man who writes for his blog every week and will always, always smile.

“I had two good years at Chelsea and it’s just been downhill from there, Ander, you cannot deny it.”

“You’ve scored five goals this season and have consistently been started, how is that rock bottom?”

“Scored five goals, one being offside, and sent just as many over the crossbar in the past two matches.”

“You’ll score next week, I know it,” It’s a weak encouragement, but Ander hopes the sentiment is felt.

“If I even play, if I’m even still at the club,” Juan grumbles, closing his eyes again. “I’m destined for a life as a mediocre journeyman.”

“Then I’ll follow you.”

Juan opens his eyes as he cocks an eyebrow at Ander.

“Juan, it’s not like I played that well either, if it makes you feel any better.”

“Why would that make me feel better? I want all of my team to play well so we win!” Juan says raising his voice. “If someone had played a spectacular game, then maybe my mistakes would be forgotten,” he adds in a softer tone. Ander sighs.

“ _You_ are forgetting your own skill. You had several passes that were pure class. Besides, you were the only one even trying to strike in some situations. You put in a great effort, and it’s not your fault if you can’t score on a bad cross.”

“But they were _good_ crosses. Don’t put Valencia and the others down to make me feel better. There’s no reason why I couldn’t have scored on the last shot.”

“Juan, this drama is unlike you. Are you just fishing for compliments now? This is all part of football and you know that.” Ander wants to spit the bitterness out of his voice.He feels like he’s reading off of a script. Maybe Juan isn’t the only one out of character tonight.

“Aye, Ander, you’re such a sweetheart.”

Ander wants to roll his eyes, but the jeers directed at Juan from the previous match fill his head and Ander says, “Oh, shut up Juan, you know I love you.”

Um, what? Ander didn’t know he loved Juan. Ander’s mind blanks and he freezes before the thoughts start scrambling into his head. Of course Ander loves Juan as a teammate, he loves a lot of his teammates. They are his friends. But Ander has never said so out loud to a friend, and especially not in such an intimate, sensitive moment. It doesn’t help that Juan still has his head resting on Ander’s arm. Ander feels the burn underneath his skin as the silence expands and multiplies. Is Juan taking all of this the wrong way? Is he disgusted? Will Ander ever hear the end of this? No, Juan is not the kind of guy to torment him like that. Of course, Juan is also not the kind of guy to mope on his couch over a couple of missed shots. Ander’s never been thrown out of anyone’s house before, but there’s a first for everything. Ander decides that this is officially awkward, and that he has been immensely creepy all night.

But Juan just keeps his eyes peacefully closed and wears a smile so small it’s impossible to read.

“Maybe if you told me that more often, I’d miss fewer shots,” Juan says with a lilt in his voice. He’s mocking Ander. Ander can handle that; he can try to play along. Crisis averted?

“Please Juan, don’t…”

“Did you keep the bench warm for me, Ander? You’re so skinny, I’m doubtful.”

“Juan. Stop it.”

“Do you recommend any seat in particular? I’d like to avoid any drafts, if possible, as well as the death glares. Just another expensive Spaniard ruining himself in England, nothing to see here.”

“Fine, Juan. I love you. IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou.”

Juan rocks his head back and forth every time Ander says it, like Ander’s singing his favorite childhood lullaby. His hair brushes Ander’s arm again. Ander summons control over every muscle in his body before it can act without his explicit consent for the fourth time tonight. _Do not put your hand in his hair, this situation has escalated enough._

“Now you have to score five goals and dedicate them all to me,” Ander whispers into Juan’s neck. When did Juan get so close so him?

“Did I say you could stop?” Juan asks with attempted authority. Ander huffs out a laugh and withdraws his hand from Juan’s hair. Fuck.

Juan releases a pleased hum and his eyes search Ander’s face. “You’re a good friend, Ander. Thank you for coming over.”

The wine sits untouched on the table. 

**Author's Note:**

> P.S the title is a lyric from the song "Leave the Bourbon on the Shelf" by the Killers. Enjoy your day and thanks again :)


End file.
